Easier to run
by pfangirl
Summary: Set five years after the events on Yamatai, Lara Croft is now a highly sought-after archaeologist, known for her devil-may-care attitude. But it's all a facade. For all the satisfaction her work provides, secretly Lara is miserable. She has spent half a decade running from her pain... until one day fate brings her face to face with it source once more. A sequel to Can't Go Home.
1. Chapter 1

**As requested, here is the follow-up to my first fan fic Can't Go Home.**

**I plan on pushing out Easier to Run in shorter, more frequently published chapters so it won't be as crafted as its predecessor. Still, I hope you enjoy it in its slightly rougher form. Let me know what you think.**

**P.S. This chapter is as sexually explicit as the story is likely to get. After this introductory piece, things become more adventure-focused. Enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

This one was eager. She was still fumbling with a fistful of keys when she felt lips against the nape of her neck. Fingers slid inside the collar of her shirt, pushing the fabric off her shoulder, plucking at her bra strap.

She let herself be turned around. Instantly his mouth was on hers. She threw her arms around his neck as he drove them back against the door.

His hands slid up and down her sides, over the curve of her breasts, her ribs, her hip bones exposed over the top of her ridiculous skinny jeans

So much for the fake courtesy of inviting him back to her place for another drink. Even if his fingers weren't happily exploring, his probing tongue made his intentions perfectly clear.

She preferred it this way. No stupid societal-imposed courting games and layers of lies to veil their wants. It was straightforward, unlike so much in life. Needs identified and then satisfied. A simple two-step dance. One. Two. Repeat.

Somehow, working blind and backwards, she managed to insert the right key into the lock. She turned the door handle and they shuffled inside the flat, their kiss still unbroken.

The lamp in the living room had been left on so there was no need to grope for a switch. That was a good thing.

She was drunk.

Laughably, despite everything she had done over the past five years, it was the only way she could work up the courage to do what she was doing. For the most part it helped her to disengage her mind, and just let her body run with its desires.

Right then her hands were tugging at his belt as they continued their wobbled waltz across the room. His jacket already shed, he was peeling hers off her shoulders.

They collided with a side table, toppling a Satsuma vase.

She lunged and caught it five inches above the floor. Then replaced it on its pedestal.

"Good save," he laughed.

"That's not all I'm good at."

His smile practically glowed in the gloom. "Show me."

She grinned back. "With pleasure."

A rum-flavoured tongue forced her lips apart. She moaned into his mouth. Fumbling at his belt again, her fingertips skimmed the ridges of deliciously defined abs. It would be easy to respond to him. Already his touch had triggered a deep throbbing between her legs.

She guided him into her bedroom; letting him tug her shirt over her head as she unbuttoned his.

She ran her fingertips over his stomach again before sliding them down into his jeans. There was just enough space to stroke his length. While doing that she teethed her bottom lip and looked up at his face, making sure to make eye contact in order to convey her full appreciation. If felt horribly theatrical on her part but they always seemed to like it – that they could provoke such a girlish reaction from her.

He moved to throw her onto the mattress, but she side-stepped and spun, letting his momentum carry him forward. He landed first. He seemed amused by the role reversal, chuckling from where he lay on his back, arms outstretched.

She smiled down at him.

Then she yanked his pants and boxers down around his ankles.

There was a moment then where the colour crept up into her cheeks and she had to suppress a jolt of skittish energy in her limbs. She wanted to stammer and turn away at the sight of his shameless exposure. But the world knew her for her brashness. So did he, evidently. He was waiting.

She forced a look of heavily-lidded satisfaction; then groped in the back pocket of her jeans for the condom she had stowed there before going out.

She kicked off her shoes and pants. She shimmied out of her underwear. His grin widened. She knew that the light coming in from the living room camouflaged even the worst of her scars. Not that the marks had put off any of her lovers. She just hated it when they did spot the puckered, pale tissue and fixated on it. She didn't like the old wounds being stared at; let alone traced by curious fingers.

She approached the bed. Her hand closed around him and for a few moments she enjoyed teasing him, watching his reaction to her simple, slow motions. The way his lip twitched. How his breath caught in his chest. The muscles straining to keep his head raised so that he could watch her standing before him nude. A genuine celebrity having her way with him. He would have such bragging rights with his friends tomorrow. Hopefully the story would end with them. If The Sun or Daily Mail caught wind of it, it was guaranteed to be messy, and it would hasten her departure from the country when she wasn't quite ready to leave.

Better not disappoint then.

Without breaking their gaze, she ripped open the foil packet and rolled on the condom.

Everything in place, she straddled him. And immediately gasped at the sensation of fullness.

This. This was what she needed.

"God," he exhaled beneath her as she began to move.

He sat up then. She wasn't expecting that. If he hadn't clasped her in an embrace she probably would have fallen backwards. Too much alcohol had that effect on her. It threw her reflexes and concentration completely. It lowered her defences. All of them.

She couldn't stop herself moaning as his mouth left hers and began travelling along the sensitive skin of her throat.

The way his lips explored the channel between her breasts…

_Her fists clenched in fine black hair. Feather-soft kisses across her chest bone that made her break out in goosebumps. The faint scent of vanilla. It was a preposterously named celebrity fragrance in an over-engineered bottle. One day archeologists would find an example and be left scratching their heads over humanity's – what? – Neo-Techno-Hedonistic Period of the early Twenty First Century. _

_The day she had been dragged on the shopping expedition to find the perfume. She had been sprayed, spritzed and dabbed with so many concoctions that she eventually had a sneezing fit. Right there in Harrods in front of a snooty saleswoman. She hadn't been able to stop laughing in the aftermath. Two giggling college girls who fled before security escorted them out. To avoid losing each other in the mad dash, they clasped hands. That first time, she felt…_

_No._

Not now. There was no place for those memories now.

She shoved her partner back against the mattress. Before he could sit up again, she clamped her palms over his wrists.

Leaning over, she growled, "I take what I want. You must have heard that about me?"

He nodded, eyes wide.

"Good."

She smirked. And then began to ride him with more vigour. But she had miscalculated. She was too drunk. Too numb. _Shit._

She tried to focus on the physical sensations; to bring every shift in pressure and friction into high definition clarity. Drawing them out of the murkiness of her body. He had broken free of her hold. Gripping her hips, he was far closer to climax than she was.

"Oh no you don't," she muttered.

She seized a handful of his hair. As intended, it threw him out of his rhythm. He looked startled.

"Wha-?"

She kissed him roughly, biting down on his bottom lip. When he winced and tried to pull away, she hissed, "Wait for me."

Parting aroused, partly unnerved and predominantly intoxicated, he lay there, just gazing up at her. She tried to appreciate her position of power, but she'd been rattled. Her pure, uncomplicated lust had been muddled with longing. In the end she had to replay the memories she'd been trying so hard to dismiss.

_Being pressed against her. How good that felt. How even better it was when their nipples brushed. It sent a jolt through her body, leaving her breathless, but it also made her laugh. She'd never realized how fun sex could be. It had always been so serious in the past, so convoluted, like she was auditioning for the cover of a romance novel. But this was completely different. _

_Even in charge, as she was then – responsible for another's pleasure – she felt liberated. She smiled and that smile was instantly returned by the face looking up at her. God, how she loved her. A life spent making her happy would be a life well spent._

_Christ, now she sounded like a romance novel._

_She was on the point of chuckling when hands cupped her cheeks. _

_Mouths pressed together._

_And she forgot what was so comical._

_Her taste._

_Her touch._

She had just enough control not to cry it out, but a word was still on her lips as she climaxed.

_Sam._


	2. Chapter 2

**Easier to run**

**Chapter 2**

She woke in darkness, face down on the mattress. Still nude. She must have simply collapsed after her climax. Or had she done something else? She couldn't remember. _Lara, could you be any more stupid?_

Her hook-up was unconscious next to her; also naked, lying flat on his back with his arms splayed out to either side of him.

As she pushed herself upright, two monstrous palms clamped over her skull. It felt like it anyway – clumsy swollen fingertips digging into either side of her head, making her cringe at the pressure.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and paused there for a few moments, hands clenching the edge of the mattress as she braced against the alternating waves of nausea and dizziness.

When the worst had passed, she pushed herself upright. Retrieving her silk kimono from behind the bedroom door, she draped it around herself and shuffled through to the kitchen. According to the wall clock it was just after 5am but it was still pitch black outside. One week into October the nights were getting considerably longer.

She downed a couple of aspirin and made some tea. Then she migrated through to her study.

Beneath her headache, the voice was still droning._ Now why exactly was last night a good idea?_

She had to admit it wasn't a good idea. It never was. But then again it was nothing she planned. Every few months or so, when she couldn't stand being alone in her head anymore; when the desire to be touched overpowered sense, she would go out, get drunk and find someone.

And it was always worse between expeditions. While out in the field she had the strenuous physical demands and mental exhilaration of discovery to flood her body with endorphins. Back in the UK, the distractions from self were less. And then the tendency to brood over her past actions would strike like a tsunami. She could sense it looming over her; the way her skin tingled in the menace of its shadow. When she worked, she could escape. In her downtime though, she grew restless. Writing journal articles, researching through the night, running for hours; none of it provided the complete absorption of senses that she craved.

She couldn't go home. Not really. Over the past five years it had become about more than a straightforward commitment to finding answers. Her body rejected the very idea of a time-out. She could never stop searching.

Even now, it was difficult to concentrate.

She could work on one of the papers she had agreed to write.

She could work on her doctorate. After all, she already had enough material for seven PhDs at least. But she had chosen the outsider's path. The renegade route of back alleys that would keep her far apart from her peers with their comfy tenures and "Professor" honorifics.

She settled on the mundane task of catching up on the email she'd been neglecting. She sat with her knees drawn up on her seat, circling the rim of her mug with a finger between sips. Irritated by her hair, she groped around for an elastic band and tied her locks back in a half-hearted ponytail.

Most of the correspondence she could ignore or politely extricate herself from. One though, she couldn't.

It had been fifteen years since the disappearance of her parents, and to commemorate their untimely loss, a new wing at the Delphi Archaeological Museum was being named after Richard and Amelia Croft. The Greek academic fraternity was up in arms over what they saw as arrogant British imperialism yet again. They couldn't dispute the fact though that continued annual donations from the Croft estate had made the museum expansion possible despite the rickety state of the Greek economy.

Then again, it could all have been a ploy to get Lara to show. Unwillingly, she had become an Archaeology megastar. Despite her general avoidance of interviews and refusal to appear in a reality TV show, she had developed a mass, mainstream fandom. People said a lot about her – most of it made up – but the truth was that her instincts paid off. Routinely the discoveries that she allowed to go public made world headlines.

Getting her to appear as the guest of honour at the wing opening was a coup for the museum. It was guaranteed to lure the press and generate free publicity.

Even now, reading over the following week's travel arrangements and event schedule, she was ambivalent about attending.

* * *

She'd agreed to it during a bout of nostalgia. She had been recalling her mother's amazingly vivid retelling of myths and legends at her bedside, and how safe she felt as a little girl in her father's arms – whether he was carrying her upstairs at Croft Manor, or to their tent in the middle of nowhere when they spent whole seasons on a single dig site. She distinctly remembered Roth sitting at the fireside and winking at her over his tin mug of whiskey. Half-asleep and clutching her scruffy teddy bear, she smiled back at him over her father's shoulder.

So many ghosts…

* * *

She sensed movement behind her, before he spoke. This was always the awkward part. It was better to just short-circuit the process, despite the risk of delivering a electrical burn that would cap the whole experience with a crusty blister.

She didn't bother to turn around. "May I call you a cab?"

"Uh-"

She glanced over her shoulder then. Her tonal coolness had frozen him halfway through the act of buttoning up his shirt. His god's stomach was partially exposed.

She arched an eyebrow, intensifying her look of disdain.

He blinked a few times, unsteady under her gaze. Eventually he found his footing. He smiled good-naturedly. "Nah, it's alright. The tube should be running by now."

He was Australian. She hadn't realized it last night over the noise of the club.

"I'll let you out."

Lara pushed back her chair and stood. She kept a physical and emotional distance. The last thing she wanted was his hands on her hips. Or even to make eye contact with him.

Once he retrieved all his clothes, they stood in the tiny entrance hall.

Lara stood with her arms crossed over her front.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Hey, if you ever want to – you know? – you have my number."

"I do."

That was a lie. She had pretended to add it to her address book. Feeling guilty, she initiated a clumsy hug.

"Thank you for last night."

She stepped back and looked him in the face. Evidently the embrace and similarly stiff expression of gratitude had been enough to placate him.

He grinned, "Cheers."

Then he was gone.

* * *

Just once she had brought home a woman. She'd been under the delusion that she could push Sam to the back of her mind if she crowded out the memory of her. Losing the documents when she stuffed more and more folders into the cabinet.

So while she was off the grid, spending a month in Massachusetts – chin-deep in Harvard's special libraries and collections – she acted on her theory.

She made herself up far darker than was normal for her. Thick eye liner, plum lipstick, leather bracelets, a low-cut black shirt that traced both her curves and layers of muscle. She supposed she looked fierce; though she felt foolish, like she was trying too hard. Miley Cyrus: The Archaeologist Edition.

At the gay club, her nerve failed her. It took three Jaeger Bombs at the bar before she could lift her head and begin hunting for what she wanted. The lioness too obvious in her intentions as stalked through the herd of wildebeest.

On the edge of the dance floor, a blonde was laughing with two other young women over alcopops. At first glance she had that immaculately made up beauty-queen-meets-spring-breaker appearance of so many WASPish American women. On closer inspection though there was an edge that Lara wanted to cut herself on – most evident by the tattoo that trickled down the side of her neck from an earlobe pierced several times.

She was perfect.

Lara sidled up and introduced herself.

Almost immediately, she was mortified by her misconceptions. The girl, a student, ticked all of Lara's physical attraction boxes, and intellectually she was no bimbo. The Englishwoman was surprised how much she liked her on every level. Articulate. Naturally confident in a way that Lara could only ape. Very sexy.

Back at Lara's apartment, they stood on either side of the kitchen island while the Englishwoman poured them each another shooter in highball glasses – the only tumblers she could find in her rented accommodation.

As the blonde raised her glass, she grinned over the lip. "I know who you are."

"Oh." So much for going incognito_._

The girl whispered, "I think you're amazing. I can't believe I'm here with you."

_Fucking a young groupie, Lara?_ The realisation brought a flush to her cheeks.

She chuckled over her embarrassment. "Well, cheers."

Silence followed their tequila toast. Lara put down her glass and rounded the counter. She went in for the kiss, which was reciprocated by soft, willing lips. The novelty of being able to make out with someone without needing to stretch up and teeter on the balls of her feet. She'd missed the relaxed naturalness of it.

They had discarded their tops by the time they entered the bedroom.

Lara lay the girl down and followed suit, pressing her bare torso against her companion. They continued to kiss and caress and writhe. Lara was loving the softness of the girl's skin, especially once she unclasped her bra. So much to play with; so much to touch.

She was especially enamoured with the blonde's short skirt. The easy, covert access it granted was a massive turn-on.

_So not straight, Lara Croft._

The archaeologist slipped down onto her knees at the foot of the bed. Gripping the blonde's thighs, she slid the girl down to the edge of the mattress so her hips were jutting over the edge. In that position it was easy to peel off the younger woman's panties.

The blonde elevated herself on her elbows to watch. She chuckled, "You've done this before."

Lara blushed. She was trying to think of a saucy comeback when her companion reached out and clasped her by the neck. The Englishwoman was drawn back onto the bed, and into a deep open-mouthed kiss.

Eventually she recalled her original intention. She slipped her fingers under the blonde's skirt and was rewarded with a shudder beneath her.

The young woman broke from the kiss to cry out. "That feels sooo good."

Moaning, she arched up into Lara's touch. "Oh my God, sweetie, that's it! Keep doing that."

_Sweetie._

Lara froze.

The girl took the Englishwoman's inaction as an invitation to reverse roles. She sat up, pushing Lara onto her back on the bedspread.

The archaeologist didn't resist. At that moment she couldn't do anything. She heard another voice, sultry and adoring.

_I love you, Lara._

She tried desperately to get back into it as the blonde kissed and licked down her stomach. But suddenly all she wanted to do was sob. She was vaguely aware that the button at the waist of her jeans had been plucked open, and the zip drawn down.

Lara raised her head. The girl was tracing her companion's unscarred hip bone with her tongue. She looked up then; her eyes meeting Lara's.

Thinking the Englishwoman's suddenly anxious gaze was one of anticipation, the blonde flashed a naughty grin. Then she slid her palm into Lara's knickers. Her fingers began to explore.

The archaeologist closed her eyes. Maybe, just maybe, she could find her lost arousal?

_Sweetie, you're the best thing that ever happened to me. _

Lara seized her companion's wrist, halting her circular strokes. "Please…"

The young woman was confused. Her lips parted, but Lara pre-empted her question. "I – I thought I could do this. But I can't."

Frowning, her companion withdrew her hand.

Lara sat up. She didn't know what to say or do. No apology seemed enough, but she stammered out one anyway. "I'm sorry."

She felt so ashamed.

She actually sat for a minute on the edge of the bed, with her head in her hands, trembling. She could hear the girl scuffling around behind her as she dressed.

"Christ." Lara balled her fists and drove her knuckles into her eyelids. Sam... She kept seeing Sam. Standing in front of her, nude, looking down at her. Smiling softly. Stroking her hair.

The Englishwoman must have looked pitiful; enough for the girl to initiate a reassuring touch when they stood clothed again before the front door.

She stroked Lara's cheek. "Hey, you don't have to worry, you know. I won't tell anyone."

That wasn't the issue at all but it was certainly easier if the younger woman believed it.

Lara forced a weak smile. "Thank you."

The blonde cupped the archaeologist's face and kissed her one final time.

As soon as the young woman was gone, Lara took several swigs from the bottle of tequila. It gave her something to do that wasn't breaking down in tears. Once she was confident that she would be unable to fight its effect, she staggered through to her bedroom. Her legs failed and she flopped face-down on the mattress, waiting to pass out. She could feel her frenetic, memory-triggered heartbeat begin to slow. Oblivion arrived soon after.

* * *

Since then, she had stuck to the thrusting of men. Straightforward. Emotionally void. It was better that way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Easier to Run**

**Chapter 3**

It was better to power through her hangover than sit immobile, replaying her most melancholy memories. She had a lunch meeting; until then she could burn the skittish energy and emotion out of her body.

She pulled on her track pants, hoodie and running shoes. Headphones in place, and playlist selected, she headed out.

She'd got about a block when she heard a voice above the volume of her mp3s.

"Hey, Lara, have your tomb raided last night?"

Jogging behind her left elbow was her own personal dedicated paparazzo. Mo Masood. He chased after her with his smartphone held out as a recording device. He was grinning.

"What was this one's name, Lara? Did you even bother getting it this time?"

"Sod off, Mo."

"What's that? Calling me a _Paki_, Lara? That's not very nice. What will my readers think?"

She stopped dead and spun around so he practically collided with her. She tugged out her earbuds. "You _know_ that's not what I said."

"It's not what I know; it's what the public will believe. And you have a reputation."

Lara could feel her temper uncoiling deep in her abdomen. That rattle tip beginning to quiver. She hissed through clenched teeth. "Thanks to you."

He shrugged in response; clearly jubilant that he'd got her to engage with him. The muscles in her jaw and forearms were clenching ever tighter.

_Keep it together, Croft. He knows exactly what buttons to push._

She'd found that out all too late – that he had a psychology background – when he exploited her at her most vulnerable. He boosted his career while she took body shots from both the press and public.

* * *

She's been back in the UK only a few days, having just completed her first expedition post-Yamatai and post the events of New York. Her peers used the Common Era dating system; Lara preferred the AS designation – After Sam.

Terrified that her best friend would follow her to Roanoke Island, and confront her with panicked, pleading eyes, Lara had changed her plans at the last minute. She ended up in Peru instead; on the hunt for Atahualpa's long-lost ransom. And she had found the famed missing portion of the 16th Century treasure haul. Much to the disgust of rival plunderers.

She knew they'd be waiting for her after she led local authorities to the site, and handed it over to their gaping-mouthed archaeological experts.

But that was kind of the point. She wanted to be ambushed and beaten. She deserved it. And they did stop short of killing her. Probably they were bewildered when she didn't fight back at all.

Back in London, she had holed herself up in her flat until the stasis was even more suffocating than her fear of interacting with the outside world, filled as it was with unpredictable crowds and noises. Still badly bruised, aching and skittish, she decided to brave a jog around the neighbourhood.

When a figure leapt out at her from a dark alley, her fight instinct activated. Adrenalin-powered and unthinking, she sank into a crouch and sprung out of it straight into her attacker's chest. Her body charge put him on his back. She was immediately on top, pounding him with her fists.

The thug had something in his hand; a weapon. She couldn't let him act first. She wrenched it from his fingers and brought it down on his face with both hands. There was a crunch as his nose broke, and she felt the cartilage give way.

She got in half a dozen strikes before she realized that she was holding an SLR camera.

The realization sapped all strength from her limbs. "Oh my God!"

She staggered backwards into the opposite wall. She was breathless, horrified at what she'd done.

Mo smiled up at her through the blood. The same blood that had flecked her face, arms and front.

Trembling with emotion, she started to stammer, "I'm so sorry. Let me – "

As she pushed herself away from the brick to help him up, she heard a muffled click to her right. Of course Mo wasn't alone. His companion was still documenting the entire incident.

Lara stared at him, pale-faced and red-splattered, barely able to process the set-up.

But it was too late…

The next few days were her worst nightmare.

The papers screamed headlines like _"Loony Croft," "Cray-cray Croft!" _and _"Tomb Raider turned Raging Toff!"_ Beneath were photos of her in close-up, completely feral to the casual observer. Teeth bared, eyes blind, the embodiment of viciousness she smashed the camera into Mo's face over and over.

A clip of the incident even popped up on YouTube. Suddenly everyone was debating what really happened on Yamatai. The incident called into question the results of the official Japanese report that had cleared Lara of all culpability. The original claims of desperate self-defence seemed to fade in relevance like water-soluble ink. They just didn't have much impact in comparison to the lurid images of Lara in deadly autopilot.

Sam would have known what to do to deflate the controversy; deflect attention and win the media to Lara's side. But alone, Lara was at a loss. The press set up camp in front of her flat. Trapped inside, the archaeologist sat brooding. She was angry at Mo. Angrier at herself. And completely ashamed.

As a result she was sullen when she visited her family's long-time solicitor. Used to dealing with financial estate and property matters, he was clearly exasperated at his client's need for criminal law guidance.

They sat in his office, separated by his monstrous mahogany desk. He knitted his fingers together on the leather desk pad, and gave the young woman his sternest look. "Lara, it's possible to argue that your reaction was the result of post-traumatic stress. Given everything you've been through…" His gaze skittered along the bruises and cuts that marred her skin in a morbid join-the-dots motif. "Just looking at you, no judge would dispute that. If you would agree to an assessment by a court-assigned psychologist, we could – "

"No."

"Lara, be sensible."

The rage flickered behind her eyes. "I'm not going to be probed by a shrink."

He sighed, "Well what do you want to do then? If you get a criminal record, visas for your globe-trotting escapades could become a problem."

"Settle," she grumbled. "Out of court before this escalates any further."

She hated having to untangle her knotted-up trust fund to pay off a wanker like Mo. Especially when he was unlikely to press charges in the first place. He'd already made a pretty penny off the photos and exclusive retellings of his story. A victim of savage Lara Croft.

* * *

The smug bastard was standing before her right now, stroking his chin for extra dramatic effect. "_Lara Croft: Tomb Racist._ How does that sound as a headline?"

"Leave me alone, Mo. I'm warning you."

"You going to hit me again, Lara?"

Eyes narrowed, she took a step towards him. Evidently she was a credible enough threat that his self-satisfied smile wavered. He backed away.

_Good._

Sensing her miniscule victory, he re-centred himself, and verbally countered her intimidation. "Don't you even want to know how I worked out you were back?"

"No."

She spun on her heel and took off in a sprint. But she could still hear him.

"My nose, it tingles whenever you're around…"

* * *

The encounter with Mo had sucked all pleasure from her run. Two kilometres in she gave up, scowling, and returned to her flat.

Once or twice, as a result of Mo's continual goading, she had actually considered moving back to her family estate. It would save her the expense of renting a two-bedroom flat in London when she hardly lived there. Then again, her flat was simple and cosy. Croft Manor was too big, too cold, too lonely. It was bad enough when she visited to browse the vast library assembled over the past three centuries.

She wasn't ignorant of the irony. She had crawled on her hands and knees deep underground, sometimes dragging her flattened body along using only her forearms. Yet the damp oppressiveness in the air – the very tangible sense of having hundreds of tons of rock and earth above her – was nothing on the suffocation she felt inside her family's sprawling mansion with its skylights and leaded glass windows towering two storeys high. It was the only time she suffered from claustrophobia.

These days calling it Croft Mausoleum felt like a more appropriate moniker.

The last time she returned home, events played out the same way they did every time she visited. She had hoped to sneak in, but she never managed to get past him. It didn't matter what time she arrived. She could slip under the noses of battle-hardened mercenaries but not a septuagenarian.

A voice behind her. "Lady Lara?"

She turned; the naughty child caught yet again.

Winston.

He stood there wearing an old twill cardigan over his butler's uniform, as grey and worn as he looked. If a human could be threadbare, that was Winston.

Lara had known him her whole life. As a child for a long time she believed that he actually lived in a cupboard off the entrance hall, waiting to spring out whenever anyone walked through the front door. Even now, years later, he was a living, breathing shadow who would attach himself to any visitor. Lara suspected he would follow her into the walk-in freezer if she went in there.

The elderly butler was the last servant who lived full-time at the Manor. Lara suspected that even if she had the heart to forcibly retire him, he would refuse to leave.

Instead, she strained a surprised smile.

"Oh, hi, Winston."

He stood stiff, clearly distressed at the informality of the meeting, despite the fact that Lara was the one who had broken protocol – creeping into the house on a gloomy Sunday afternoon, and looking about as unladylike as possible.

She was suddenly aware of her dishevelled appearance, having dashed in the rain from her car to the front door. Water dripped from her hair and military jacket. Her gaze dipped to her old leather boots, which had tracked a liberal serving of mud onto the checkered floor. _Oops._

"Lady Lara, you should have called ahead. I could have prepared your room for you."

"Oh, that's really not necessary. I'm not staying long. I'm just here to," she shook the satchel slung over her shoulder, "get some books."

Winston gave her _that _look. She remembered being on the receiving end of it when she was a child. After being caught spying on her parents' meetings; sneaking into her father's study to examine artefacts unsupervised; or stealing freshly baked biscuits out of the kitchen. With a single raised eyebrow he could make her feel guilty even when she had done nothing wrong.

Now that look meant something else entirely – disapproval of Lara as the last of her line. The Final Croft: A complete disappointment.

Instead of providing an heir and bringing life back into the house, even if that meant becoming a Croft hyphenate, she was gallivanting around the globe. Although her truth-excavating ambitions and accomplishments were admirable, her methods were not. Making alliances with law breakers if needs be. Crawling around in the muck. Being shot at. Killing. Fucking indiscriminately. These were not the typical components of a lady's lifestyle. Well, not officially anyway.

Being alone in Croft Manor with Winston made her feel like Batman or something. And she hated it.

Her family home was full of painful reminders. Even if she could shut out her own memories, there was no ignoring the spray of photographs and painted portraits on every surface. They forced her to acknowledge her heritage; the love she would have curled up in like a blanket if it hadn't been stripped from her.

_A little girl still in her school uniform, sitting alone on the edge of her bed, hiccupping as she tried not to cry. Not even knowing if she had any right to grieve for her missing parents._

The library used to double as her father's study, and a side table was crammed with framed photographs.

Richard Croft in his bachelor adventuring days, his arms around a much younger Roth and Grimm.

Amelia Croft prim and proper in her dressage attire.

Another one of her thigh deep in a river, standing in waders, and smiling as she prepared to cast her line.

Lara as a baby.

The family together in a wintery setting, with five year old Lara in a bright red coat and scarf, clutching the hands of both her parents.

Another irony: For someone whose profession required her to dig around in the past, Lara Croft detested excavating her own personal history.

Still, she couldn't deny that she carried her parents around with her. Every time she looked in a mirror she was forced to recognise that fact. She was lean, long-limbed and complexioned like her father. But there was no question she was her mother's daughter. Amelia Croft was shorter, raven-haired and more voluptuous, but in terms of facial features the resemblance was striking.

The last thing Lara felt at that moment was hunger – heartsore was more accurate – but she accepted Winston's offer of tea before she left; largely so that he could feel useful.

He served the Twinings with a couple of gingernut biscuits and a jam sandwich, the crusts cut off just like when she was a child. She sat on a stool in the kitchen, nibbling at her food. It was a chilly, sterile space, but still more cosy and comforting than the eerily silent dining room, half draped in white sheets. There her ancestors looked down on her from their portraits.

She agreed to appear at the Delphi Museum unveiling the next day.

* * *

After a morning spent reminiscing and reading, Lara pulled on a pair of jeans and a plain V-neck T-shirt, and headed to the Nine Bells.

The pub was one of the few places she felt relaxed. Its regulars were her people. She knew that given her aristocratic birth right she was supposed to be leading a very different life. Teetering around in inappropriate heels at the Royal Ascot, champagne in hand, discussing marriage proposals from under a monstrous hat. Alternatively, she should be gossiping about how quickly Kate got her pre-baby body back.

Lara loathed it.

The Nine Bells was dingy. It reeked of stale smoke, beer and bodies. And it could be dangerous as drunkenness took on a darker deviant shade, particularly late on Saturday nights. Still, Lara felt at home there. It was one of the few places she could go where she wasn't stared at. Despite everything she had done the past five years, she was still treated as part of the furniture; nothing more than a former barmaid who continued to hang around as one of the clientele.

People didn't even look up when she entered. Proprietor Charlie, her former boss, gave her a nod while he wiped pint glasses, but that was it.

She spotted Lynch at one of the tables in the middle of the pub. He hadn't been there long. His double whisky was untouched, as was the one he had ordered for her.

Grizzled and ten pounds overweight, the Irishman nonetheless reminded her of a Roth-Grimm hybrid. He used to be one of their rivals, but after their death, Lara felt herself drawn to the pilot. He wasn't as reliable or ethical as her original allies, but he was game for anything – and that she prized.

She slipped into the seat opposite him, and they slipped straight into business. This didn't mean of course that Lynch would pass up the opportunity to ogle Lara's chest. He smiled appreciatively. "So what can I do for you today, girlie?"

She tugged a map out of her pocket. "I need a drop-off in Tibet."

"Tibet? I thought the Chinese wanted your head after the whole Elixir of Life incident?"

"They do."

Lynch puffed out his cheeks. "If the authorities catch you – "

"I enjoy the challenge of a tight spot," Lara smirked. "Is it possible?"

"Sweetheart, you might as well ask me to fly straight up the India-Pakistan border."

"I'm not opposed to that either. You didn't answer my question. Is it possible?"

The beefy Irishman leaned back in his chair. "Of course it's possible. I'm questioning how _wise_ it is."

"Let me worry about that."

The earnestness with which she said it seemed to amuse Lynch. Something sparkled in his eye, and the conversation instantly morphed from brusque to banter. She decided to play along.

Lynch chuckled in his thick accent, "You really need a boyfriend, Lara."

"Why? It's easy enough to satisfy my needs without one, and this way lovers don't cramp my style."

That earned her a grin. "You're a cold one, Croft. A real dark horse."

Lara took a sip of her drink. "Would you even be asking the question if I was a man?"

"Heh, probably not."

She lowered her glass. "So why do you persist?"

"It doesn't hurt to ask."

She sighed, "You know I'm never going to say yes, Lynch."

"Come on. What about some good Irish blood in your gene pool?"

She arched an eye brow. "I don't want any part of you in my gene pool, thank you."

He guffawed at that, and raised his whisky in salute.

Lara was startled out of her return smile by a clatter behind the bar, followed by Charlie's booming voice. "Bloody hell, girl!"

A panicked ponytailed redhead was scampering for a mop behind the counter. She gasped, "Mr Ansell, I'm so sorry."

Lara estimated the girl was nineteen. Pretty. Pleasing to look at in her uniform. And clearly still learning the ropes at the Nine Bells. Lara knew from her own experience that Charlie and the locals would give her a hard time, but if she stuck it out and proved her mettle, they would become her fiercest champions.

Since Yamatai, at least six tabloid journalists had been flung out of the pub. The paparazzi had learned quickly to stay clear of Lara's little haven if they valued their cameras.

Her former employer caught Lara watching.

"Croft!" he called. "You want your old job back? Even out of practice, I'm sure you could do better than this one." He cocked his head in the direction of the barmaid.

Lara smiled, "I'll think about it, Charlie."

Then she winked at the redhead. Star struck, the girl gaped and hurriedly refocused on her task.

Laughing to herself, Lara turned back to Lynch. She was jabbing at her intended destination on the map when it happened.

"Lara?"

That voice. She hadn't heard it for five years. Or, rather, she hadn't heard it in person for five years. For the first few weeks and months there had been pleading voice messages and phone calls almost every single day. She didn't have the courage to respond. Throat clogged with emotion, eyes blinded by tears, she always severed the connection as soon as she realized who was on the line.

But it couldn't be her. Not here, surely?

Lara looked up. It was her. Standing there in her tight jeans and biker jacket. Her weight on one hip, jutting away from her centre line of balance. Half a decade and she hadn't changed at all. Same perfectly groomed hair style. Same pristine skin and make-up.

"S-Sam?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Easier to Run **

**Chapter 4**

"S-Sam?"

The American woman was striding across the pub towards her.

Lara was numb in her seat, incapable of doing anything but fixate on the face of her former best friend.

Sam's expression was unreadable. Soft and beautiful as always; her lips parted. She stopped in front of Lara. The archaeologist gazed up at her.

Her senses were so overloaded by Sam's presence that she didn't even feel the whisky until it seared her eyes.

It still wasn't as much of a shock to her system as Sam slamming the glass down on the table. It jolted Lara back into the physical present.

Sam was yelling at her. Screaming. "Is that all I was to you, Lara? Just another of your fuck-and-runs?!"

The Englishwoman desperately wanted to say something. But words bounced against her epiglottis and vanished back down her throat. All she could do was gape.

Sam waited a heartbeat. Under the suffocating intensity of her gaze, Lara just couldn't generate a response. She was vaguely aware of the liquid dripping off her nose and chin; the way it glued stray locks of hair to her cheeks.

Sam shook her head at the archaeologist's silence. Lara's lack of reaction gave her nothing to stoke her rage. At least that was one way of interpreting her look of disappointment. She clenched her eyes shut and grimaced, "Goddammit." Then she bolted for the door.

For a second, Lara wondered if she had hallucinated the whole thing. But there was no ignoring the sudden silence in the pub; how all eyes had settled on her.

Even Lynch was stiff in his seat. He was always the one with a dirty joke or saucy quip. She could rely on him for that. But even the Irishman didn't seem to know how to respond in the aftermath.

The Englishwoman could feel her face reddening. _Jesus Christ!_

Nothing had changed. Sam still acted on impulse. So self-assured; so immune to embarrassment after years of misbehaviour calculated to snare her parents' attention. Lara had learned to fake cockiness but it was all an act. Sam felt feathers about causing a scene.

And true to form, she had left Lara standing alone, naked and scriptless on the stage. It was impossible for her to pretend that nothing had happened.

All that anxious energy that had retreated to her core on spotting Sam surged back into Lara's limbs. Her final measured action was to pick up a serviette and dab her face. She pushed back her chair, and suddenly she was outside in a half crouch, ready to sprint in any direction. She spotted Sam a block to her left. Her back was to Lara, her head downcast as she trotted away.

"Hey!" Lara yelled, earning a few startled looks from passers-by; but nothing from her former best friend.

Suddenly furious, Lara broke into a run. "Hey!"

With her long strides, she caught up effortlessly. She grabbed Sam's elbow and spun her around. She snarled into the American's face, "What the hell was that?! You humiliated me back there."

Sam yanked free of her grip. In return she spat, "You broke my heart!"

"I broke both our hearts, Sam."

The documentary maker started at that admission. Her scowl slackened for a moment; then it was back. Her voice was softer though. "Then why did you do it, Lara?"

"I – I had to." It had become her mantra over the past five years.

Sam started laughing. The sound was so bitter that it stung Lara's eyes.

"I had – " The Englishwoman's tongue tangled in the words. She tried again. "I had to protect you."

"Protect me?" Sam rolled her eyes to the grey London sky. "From what exactly? Pain? Because that was a big fucking _FAIL_ wasn't it?"

She laughed even louder. "God! You know, for someone so smart you can be really fucking stupid sometimes. You don't think that you could have had both? Your beloved _truth_ and me?"

The volume of Sam's voice… The city was saturated with weirdness, but people on the street were looking at them. Lara wasn't supposed to care, but she did. And the fact that at that moment she was actually worried about Mo hearing the exchange enraged her.

"Lara!"

What could she say? She couldn't argue with her former best friend. This was the verbal equivalent of being pounded by those furious Peruvians. She deserved it. She deserved all of it. Sam rarely excelled academically – she just wasn't interested – but she was marvellously perceptive. And right then she was spot-on.

The archaeologist took a deep breath and murmured, "I never meant – "

Sam cut her off again. "What? Are you going to say that you didn't mean to hurt me?"

"That last night was never supposed to happen like that. You kissed me and – "

Sam barked, incredulous. "So it's _my_ fault?"

"No. I just – "

"Actually, you know what? I think you intended to hurt me as much as you could. Because you're broken, Lara Croft."

The archaeologist had been in the process of reaching for Sam again. But she stumbled as the words struck her. Her arm dropped to her side.

"Five years is a long time. I had a really long time to think, so I worked it out, Lara." When the Englishwoman didn't respond, her companion continued, "The first time you feel something, you run. Run away to dusty tombs and dead bodies. Because it's easier. Anything living, you have no clue how to handle."

All the colour that had fled Lara's face seemed to have defected to Sam's cheeks. The American resumed her tirade. "Dead things! You've surrounded yourself with them, Lara. Christ, you make them! There must be a mountain of corpses you're responsible for by now. Because God forbid you talk to anyone about anything. Kill first and look for answers after. God, you're so emotionally stunted."

Lara felt her body and mind disengage. She'd come to recognise it as self defence mechanism. It had an instantly numbing effect; so welcomingly soothing. Even her words came out mechanically. Two syllables. "Right then." She turned and started to walk away.

But Sam didn't stop.

"You're screwed up, Lara. Familial love, platonic love, romantic love; they're all muddled in your head. If I had died on Yamatai and it had been Roth you'd saved, would you be fucking him right now?"

That was it. Pure, undiluted rage.

Lara spun around. "How dare you?" She was no longer concerned about causing a scene. Her hiss morphed into a full-bodied yell as she charged back towards her former friend. "_How fucking dare you?!_"

Sam's sneer instantly withered under Lara's glare.

In the second it took the archaeologist to close the gap between them, she was ready to shove Sam; punch her; she didn't care.

Sensing Lara's intention, Sam hopped backwards, trying to put distance between them. She was cringing; her arms raised to protect her face.

And just like that, Lara's temper guttered out. Shame smoked instead.

_Jesus, she's terrified of you. _

Then her eyes latched onto Sam's left hand.

Every so often the Englishwoman would feel a twinge in her left side, where the rebar puncture had almost killed her five years previously. Right then, though, it felt like someone had punched her above the hipbone with a sharp-tipped knuckleduster. That the intensity of the blow had ripped open her scar all over again.

Sam recognised what Lara was staring at. She turned the back of her hand to the archaeologist so that she could better appraise it.

Even with her jaw trembling, Sam still managed to blurt it out. "Yeah, Lara, I'm engaged."


End file.
